


if the dead can hear the living

by skuls



Category: The X-Files
Genre: AU, Episode: s04e24 Gethsemane, F/M, its not what u think it's not that sad i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-10-28 21:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10839666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skuls/pseuds/skuls
Summary: 28. i love you: when i am dead





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i had this idea a few months ago and wasn’t ever going to write it but i really liked it with this prompt. original post here: https://how-i-met-your-mulder.tumblr.com/post/160383552898/28-when-i-am-dead
> 
> warning for discussion of suicide.

_gethsemane au_

“It him?” the detective asks, and she says, “Yeah,” and leaves the room on wobbly legs. 

_This is not happening,_ something in the back of her mind says. She doesn’t know if she feels dizzy because of the cancer or because her partner’s dead on the floor in there. Her heart thunders unevenly in her chest. _This cannot possibly be happening,_ she tells herself. Her fingernails bite into her palm. She doesn’t let herself cry until she gets to the elevator.

(Two years ago, he came back from the dead here. It has gone full fucking circle.)

She’s not at all surprised when she collapses in a meeting, not at all surprised when they tell her she’s dying. Someone mails a chip to the hospital - some anonymous donor - and Scully agrees to replace the one that used to be in her neck with it because all she can think is that Mulder would want her to try it. She’s not surprised when they tell her she’s dying, but she is surprised when they tell her she’ll live. She is grateful when she sees her brother’s smile and her mother’s grateful sobbing, but her chest clenches when she thinks about telling Mulder. He would’ve wanted to know; wanted to know that his conspiracy was the one that saved her. When her family leaves, she pulls her sloppily written journal into her lap and flips to the back. She’s written something in a sloppy hand that she doesn’t remember writing. She swallows hard and writes one more thing: _I never really blamed you. I’m so sorry._

—

He wakes up in a cell, the last thing he remembers being the gun in his lap. No - he blinks the sleep from his eyes and reaches further. He remembers standing with the gun in his hand and deciding - he had to go underground, to find a cure for Scully. Maybe she could help him, if she didn’t completely hate him; or if she couldn’t, the Gunmen would. He started to turn, and then he felt a sharp pain at the back of his head. And then nothing. And then here.

Someone comes into the room and he tries to fight him, but of course it’s some kind of fucking alien who looks like a human. Kristchgau was wrong and Scully is still dying. Fuck.  

The alien thrusts a hand out and pins him to the wall with some invisible push. “Calm down, Mr. Mulder.”

“What the hell is going on here?” he spits, struggling against the force holding him to the hard cement. “What do you want with me?”

“People believe that the conspiracy is false, and now the only living proof is allegedly dead,” the alien says matter-of-factly. 

“And what about my partner?” Mulder hisses. (She’s the only weapon he has at this point; maybe she won’t really believe he’s gone, maybe she’ll come for him. No, fuck, she can’t do that, she’s sick, she’s dying. He is as selfish as he’s always thought himself to be.) “What does she believe?”

The alien pauses before continuing with some kind of self-satisfaction. “Dana Scully died last night at Trinity Hospital.”

When the alien finally loosens the force that has him pinned against the wall, he doesn’t even try to stay upright; he just lets his knees hit the ground.

—

They release Scully from the hospital a week after she goes into remission. With Bill and her mother surrounding her and being generally happy that she isn’t dead, she can almost pretend that there’s not a void inside her, some sort of black hole in the pit of her stomach. When they leave, it’s quieter, and the image is unavoidable. 

( _Mulder’s blood on the floor, the sheet draped over his body, the gun on the table, they gave me this disease to make you believe…_ ) 

Scully lies on the couch with a throw blanket draped over her lap. It feels too much like the period of time after her coma, where it seemed like all the strength had been sucked right out of her. Except for the fact that this was much more severe - she has a much longer recovery period, a two-month sick leave from work. And her mother is still here to fuss over her, but Melissa isn’t here to sit on the end of the couch and tease her about her partner or make fun of TV shows with her or offer to paint her nails like they did when they were kids, and Mulder isn’t here to awkwardly visit and offer her videotapes or treat her like she is something delicate and sacred or look at her the way he looked at her in her hospital bed when she thought she wasn’t looking. She doesn’t even have her dog to keep her company. She’s lost almost too much to count. 

She watches bad TV for three days, breaks down just once:in the bathroom, after she picked up the phone to call him and remembered he wasn’t there anymore. _This is too hard,_ she thinks then, looking down at the phone, on its side on the floor where she dropped it. _I can’t do this._

She calls Skinner and asks him to keep the X-Files open. She doesn’t entirely trust him but who else is going to keep the unit open? He asks her why, and she says, “In honor of Agent Mulder’s memory, to continue his work.” It’s the truth and a lie; she’ll continue it in a different way than he would’ve wanted, probably, because she’s never been a believer in her life, but still. She owes it to her sister and his sister and herself and him to find the people who did this, do this. They killed him, essentially, and she is going to take them down. 

She calls an old friend who owes her a favor and asks to see Mulder’s autopsy report. “Oh, Dana, I guess they didn’t tell you,” her friend says.

_When would they have told me?_ Scully thinks irritably. “No.”

“They went over my head. I never even saw the body. It was taken away as evidence.” 

Scully thanks her absently and hangs up, mind racing. The fuckers; they didn’t even have the decency to give her or his mother any closure. His mother, damn, she has no idea how Teena Mulder is doing at the moment. The last time she saw Teena, it was when she slapped Mulder. She calls her, hands shaking as she clutches the receiver. Teena calls her Agent Scully and doesn’t seem to want to talk for too long. Scully understands. She tells her that Mulder is buried in Martha's Vineyard and thanks her for working with her son before hanging up. _She could thank me for protecting him if I’d done my job right,_ Scully thinks. She thinks that between the two of them, neither of them are what he needed.

—

He always thought he’d fight if he were ever abducted. He thinks the circumstances are probably a little different than what happened to Samantha and Scully - he didn’t see a light, for one thing - but still, it’s clear where he is. (Scully fought, he knows she did, instinctively, because she never went down without a fight.) He always thought he’d be making plans, looking for his sister. He always thought he’d fight if Scully died. 

He doesn’t fight. 

Scully’s death is more than he can take. He’s known this - known it since he stared down at a gun barrel at her and tried to fight Modell’s voice in his head, known it since he saw her stiff and almost lifeless in a hospital bed, known it since she got her diagnosis. He was going to fight for her, and he couldn’t even do that right. He killed her, whether aliens are real or not, because even if they aren’t, she never would’ve been involved in all this if it weren’t for him. She would’ve lived. And he never would’ve known her, but it would’ve been better this way. 

He lies on the dirty floor of his cell, doesn’t get up when the aliens enter. He tries to sleep, but can’t. He tries to remember what her voice sounds like and can only come up with the last time he saw her. When she told him it was his fault. ( _The men behind this hoax… behind these lies… gave me this disease to make you believe._ The last thing she said to him. It was his fault, and she knew it. She died knowing it.) But he’d rather have her alive and blaming him then dead. 

He was in love with her and he didn’t want to tell her because he was scared and then she was dying and what kind of person would he be if he waited until then? He’s waited too long. He whispers it into the skin of his arm (Iloveyou) just once, like the ground she’s buried in might carry the message to her and she’ll come back. He says _I’m sorry_ more, because he is and he needs her to know that more than anything. He doesn’t know if the dead can hear the living, doesn’t know if ghosts are real and doesn’t know if she’d haunt him if they were. 

The smoker visits him once, and Mulder shouts at him, tries to pin him to the wall of the cell but he’s too weak, he hasn’t been eating. He collapses on the ground in front of him. The smoker looks down at him curiously before grabbing him and dragging him across the dirty floor, wheezing the entire time. He manages to haul and drop Mulder on the tiny bed, the cot rocking with the force of his weight. “Agent Scully was your weakness,” he says. _Was_ , Mulder thinks, and wants to vomit. “Maybe it wasn’t a wise idea to assign her to you.”

“You motherfucking bastard,” Mulder says, trying to find the malice in his voice and failing. He is pathetically tired. “You _killed_ her.”

The smoker takes a long drag of his cigarette. The fucker; the smell won’t come out, with no windows, will continue to be a stomach-turning reminder. “Perhaps,” he says, and leaves. Mulder listens for the sound of the lock in the door, but he doesn’t hear it. He must be imagining things, the smoker would never let him leave like that. 

He sleeps, weightless. But not dreamless. Scully is there. He’s starting to think she’s everywhere.

—

Maggie takes Scully to Massachusetts to visit his grave. She doesn’t want Scully to go alone, and the doctor in Scully agrees. But she insists that her mother let her go to the grave alone, at least. 

The sun is shining, which feels wrong. It feels like clouds should be choking the sky and she can’t breathe when she sees his headstone. She doesn’t want to touch it but she does - gingerly with outstretched fingers. It’s cold to the touch. 

“Mulder,” she starts, uncertain. She had a speech prepared, she went over and over it in her head on the drive up, but all the words have left her. She has nothing to say. She presses her palm flat against the headstone. “Mulder, it’s me,” she says. She is awkward in the way that she hasn’t been with him since 1993; what do you say to a dead man? ( _Mulder would know,_ she thinks. _Mulder would know what to say._ )

“I’m so sorry for… everything.” The stone is new and smooth under her fingers; a reminder. She swallows back nausea or a sob, she’s not sure which, and whispers, “It wasn’t your fault. I miss you.” 

There is nothing else to say. She didn’t bring flowers. She should’ve brought flowers, he brought her flowers when she was dying and didn’t know it. She runs her hand over his engraved name before turning and walking out of the cemetery on shaky legs.

Her mother is still sitting dutifully in the car seat; she mentioned something about paying her own respects after Scully was finished. “Dana,” she says when Scully climbs into the passenger seat. “Are you…”

“I think I loved him.”

She doesn’t know where the words come from, but her mother’s face immediately crumples with sympathy. “Oh, Dana,” she says, enfolding her in a hug.

“I didn’t know what to… I don’t… I never…” She’s crying. She wipes the tears from her cheeks with her fingertips.

“Shh, it’s okay,” her mother soothes her, rocking her. “It’ll all be okay.”

She doesn’t say anything because there’s nothing to say. She thinks she loved him and they say it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all but she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know much of anything anymore.

They drive home and Scully stares at the trees flitting by outside the window. She lets them go out of focus, into blurs of green and brown. It is summer. She holds her breath and pretends Mulder is driving. It’s a case, and they have all the time in the world. 

She goes to his apartment when they get to DC, which isn’t really his anymore. It’s in the stages between _crime scene_ and _on the market_ , but his things are still there. Someone will have to sell them. She searches for and fails to find anything not expired in his fridge. She goes in a wide berth around the couch and shakes food in the fish tank. She walks to the couch, heart in her throat.

The rug with the stain on it is gone; it’s just bare floor now. Her stomach twists as she sits on the spot where Mulder took his last breath. _Fuck_ , she thinks. She wants to vomit. _I cannot do this,_ she thinks.

She lies on the couch, lies in his shadow, curled on her side with her arms wrapped around her torso. One night to see if his ghost comes. Maybe that will give her closure. 

—

Mulder wakes up to his cell door hanging open. 

Dizzy, he stumbles to his feet and towards the door. The hallway outside is empty; no visible traps. If it is a test, he doesn’t care. Either way, they are going to pay for Scully, even if it’s as small as whoever gets caught in the crossfire of his escape. He shoves out of his cell and runs down the hall, his gait clumsy and wobbly; he should’ve eaten, he’ll be pathetic in a fight. But no fight comes. He finds a door and opens it. No alarm goes off. He trails into the summer warmth, running until the building is far behind him. 

It’s over and it’s just beginning. He has work to do. 

He’s somewhere in Virginia, he figures out quickly by a small convenience store run by a kindly woman who calls him a cab and lends him the money. “I’ll pay you back, I swear,” he says, and she tells him not to worry about it. She probably feels sorry for him.

He’ll go home, he decides; get some sleep, eat something, try to regain something resembling strength. In the morning, he’ll call the Gunmen and figure out their next move. (He should call Maggie and apologize; he should visit Scully’s grave.) The alien told him that the only proof was allegedly dead - him, he assumes. He’ll probably give everyone a heart attack, with his return from the dead. He’ll be lucky if his apartment isn’t a crime scene. (Did Scully think he was dead before she died?)

The streetlights and headlights almost look like blurred stars from the wet windshield of the taxi. Maybe that’s where Scully is. 

He doesn’t have his keys, he realizes after he’s already gotten to his apartment, and buzzes his landlord to let him in. Mrs. Alridge seems stunned and genuinely happy to see him. “My goodness, dear, what did you manage to get yourself into?” she says, astonished but not out of the realm of reason astonished - this isn’t his first return from the dead. If things were different, he might stand around and humor her, but they aren’t so he thanks her for letting him in and trails into his dark apartment alone. 

It’s not empty. Someone - an anonymous figure - jolts up from their spot on the couch and says, “Who’s there?” in a harsh voice.

His throat closes up. It’s Scully.

It’s _Scully_ , out of her suits, in jeans and a Quantico t-shirt. She turns sharply to face him, eyes furious, and freezes, mouth agape and eyes wide with horror. She’s looking better than she has in months which is impossible because _she’s dead_ and he can’t breathe. 

His first thought is that it’s a clone, they’ve sent it here to kill him, this is all some test. But no, it can’t be, because a clone wouldn’t react like this, would they?  _And besides,_ he rationalizes frantically, _why would a clone be lying here waiting? Did they figure out I escaped fast enough to have her waiting for me?_ _It makes more sense for her to come find me instead of me to find her._ He’s grasping at straws and doesn’t care, wants so badly for her to be real. _The alien could’ve lied_ , he thinks. _Spender said “perhaps” when I said he killed her, it could be…_

“Sc-” he starts.

“Who the hell are you?” Her voice cracks, like she’s going to cry. 

He takes a sharp breath. So her mind went to the same place his did.

“van Blundht?” she says sharply. Her eyes are red like she’s been crying. “I know you’re not a clone, that bullshit’s not real, they told me.”

It is real; maybe she’ll know him if he tells her that. “It is real,” he says.

She recoils like she’s been slapped. “What?” she hisses. Her hands are shaking. He’s never seen her like this before. 

He amends quickly. “Scully, it’s me,” he says softly, and his own voice cracks (because _Jesus Christ_ , he never thought he’d get to talk to her again). “I’ve been in a Syndicate cell for a few weeks now... they... god, they told me you were dead...” He can’t go on, he’s choking on his words ( _she’s alive, she’s alive_ ).

Scully is shaking. She wraps both arms tightly around herself. Her jaw clenches, unclenches. “It’s not real,” she says. “It’s not real, Mulder, I have another chip in my neck that’s keeping me alive and there are men out there doing injustices but  _goddammit,_ there is no such thing as aliens and you _shot_ yourself...” She makes a small sound he hasn’t heard her make since Melissa. “You fucking shot yourself, you bastard,” she whispers.

“That was... I didn’t...” he tries to explain.

“Fuck you, I know,” she hisses. 

He doesn’t know who moves first but they crash into each other. She wraps herself fully around him, nails digging into his back; he buries his face in her neck. She’s crying, he thinks; he thinks he’s crying, too. He holds her tighter. She’s muttering something into his hair, he doesn’t understand it, her words are running together, but he doesn’t care because she’s _here_. She’s here and...

“Scully?” he rasps against her skin. “Scully, are you sick?”

“Remission,” she mumbles, a little louder so he can hear it. Her hands fist into the back of his shirt. 

“Oh my god.” He kisses her collarbone. “God, Scully, I wanted to... I was going to find a cure but they got to me first... I wanted...”

“Shh.” She’s still shaking; she pulls him backwards until they both land on the couch. She doesn’t let go. “It’s okay now,” she murmurs.”You’re back. We’re fine.”

“I’m so sorry...”

“Shh.” She pulls him closer so he’s halfway on top of her, his head on her shoulder. “You’re alive,” she whispers. “You’re alive.” 

They lay together in a tangle of limbs and hot breath on the couch. They don’t let go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got a prompt for couch and it turned into a second part to this. whoops!

She has nightmares about his death, macabre and morbid images of his blood splatter on the rug and his blank, blank eyes staring out at her accusingly. The gun in his hands. She wakes up too warm with wet cheeks and doesn’t open her eyes right away. _It’s over now,_ she tries to tell herself. _There was nothing you could’ve done._ But it’s a lie and the taste of it is bitter on her tongue.

In the next few moments, when her brain starts to make sense of her surroundings, she wonders who is holding onto her like she is a life preserver in a stormy sea, and why she is clutching them just as tightly.

She opens her eyes and the night before comes flooding back to her. Mulder. Mulder is alive. Mulder is here. She is holding Mulder on his couch, and the reason he’s wrapped around her desperately, fists balled into the back of her t-shirt and nose buried in her hair, is because the people who took him and faked his death told him she was dead, too.

She would question the ultimate cruelty of this shadowy agency, but she’s too busy rattling out prayers of thanks in her head. _It wasn’t a dream,_ she thinks, burying her face in his neck. _Thank God, it wasn’t a dream._ His pulse is pounding against her forehead and he is _alive_.

Her movements rouse him, just a little, and he tightens his hold on her, mumbling, “Scully?”, eyes still shut. Maybe in fear. Maybe he’s dreaming that she’s gone, too.

“I’m here, Mulder,” she soothes, rubbing his back. The irony of their predicament is not lost on her. She presses a kiss against the fleshy part of his chin. “I’m here.”

He quiets, his nose brushing her collarbone as he snuffles out a sigh of relief. He is breathing. _He’s alive_ , Scully reminds herself. _He’s alive, he’s alive. We’re alive._

She’s too hot, the two of them crammed together on his leather couch, but she wouldn’t move away for the world. She falls asleep with her head resting against his shoulder.

* * *

 

He panics when he wakes up with her gone, the warm memory of her still lingering, and almost convinces himself that it was just a dream. But then she comes out of his bedroom, hair wet and dripping on her shoulders, and the smile that spreads across her face when she sees him is unmistakable. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and offers a small smile back. “Hi,” he offers.

“Hi,” she replies, her voice warmer than he had expected. She sits down beside him on the couch. Unable to resist, he reaches out and takes her hand, like she’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on. She squeezes his, but isn’t looking at him. She’s looking down at her knees, almost in hesitation. “So… the Syndicate did this? You didn’t…” Her voice falters, and Mulder suddenly sees what she is looking at. He follows her line of sight to the bare spot on his floor where the rug used to be.

“No, no,” he says quickly. Her fingers are cold in his. “I was considering going underground to look for your cure, but I was going to tell you. I wouldn’t have done that to you.” She takes an uneasy breath. He thinks about folding her close in his arms but decides against it in favor of a fuller explanation, because Scully has always liked to know the whole story. “Someone knocked me out and I woke up in a cell. Some… _thing_ came in. It held me to the wall without lifting a finger and told me you were…” He breaks off mid-sentence and squeezes her hand again, unable to say it. “The smoker was there,” he adds, quietly. “I think he’s the one who let me go, but I have no idea why.”

She bites her lip. “It looked just like you,” she mumbles, tracing the line of his thumb with hers. “Whatever they used. They made me identify the body… it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.”

Overwhelmed, he pulls her hand up to his mouth. “I’m so sorry, Scully,” he mumbles against the skin of her hand.

She nods, finally turning to look at him. “I’m sorry, too,” she says, and he closes his eyes, kisses her knuckles before lowering her hand down to her side. She doesn’t let go. “If I’d known… I would’ve done the autopsy, but I was too sick. I would’ve come for you if I’d known.”

He flinches, remembers the night in the hospital with her brittle hair and her frailness, wrapped up in a robe and his arms. He’d been afraid to hold her too tight. “How did you… I mean, did it just go away?”

She shakes her head. “Someone anonymously mailed a microchip to the hospital. Similar to the one I had them remove two years ago. I decided to take a chance and replace it. My mother and brother hated that…” She laughs a little, rubbing circles on the back of his hand with her thumb. “But it worked. I was well within a couple of days.”

Whoever is looking out for her, he is eternally grateful. He wouldn’t have found it in time, he wouldn’t have been able to save her. He would’ve had to watch her die. She was closer to the fabricated death they gave her than he was. She was so close. If the smoker hadn’t let him go, they never would’ve seen each other again. He would’ve gone on believing that she had died because of him…

Something dawns on him all of a sudden, and the thought is terrible enough to make him want to bring it up. “Scully, last night… you said I shot myself,” he starts.

Her jaw clenches. “They made it look like suicide, yes.”

He remembers their argument that night, her parting words to him. What must’ve been what she thought were her last words to him. “You didn’t think…” he tries, but it is a very hard thing to ask someone. “You didn’t blame yourself, did you? Because of our argument?”

Scully closes her eyes. He half-expects her to walk away, but she doesn’t. She holds onto his hand in a death grip. (He immediately hates himself for his choice of words.) “So, aliens are real, huh?” she mumbles through gritted teeth.

“I… it would appear that way, Scully,” he replies uncertainly, shakily. _The men behind this hoax... behind these lies... gave me this disease to make you believe,_ he hears again, and the crushing guilt, the nausea, returns with it.

“I don’t believe you,” she says miserably, a tear sliding out from behind her lids. She shuffles forward on the couch, towards him, and he wraps himself around her gratefully. Her warmth, her heartbeat against his. Her fingernails dig into his shoulders. “I don’t believe you,” she whispers.

* * *

 

It becomes clear in the following hours that everyone besides Scully and his neighbor thinks he is dead. And Scully thinks it’s better to keep it that way. “If they’re looking for you…” she starts.

“It could be better if I expose myself to the outside world,” Mulder says. He’s just now remembered his mother, realized that she had to bury him. “They’re not likely to try to take me again if a big deal is made out of my return.”

She chews her lower lip nervously. “I’m not sure, Mulder. I don’t want to make any rash decisions that will cost us.”

Anything to keep her safe. (What if they come for Scully next?) But the most reasonable thing, at least in his mind, seems to be making it clear that he is alive and was abducted and a decoy was murdered in his place. Too high profile for the Syndicate, and it should definitely keep them from bothering him anytime in the near future. He hopes. “Maybe we should talk to Skinner before we decide our next move,” he amends. “Or the Gunmen. That was my plan as of last night, anyway.”

“I don’t know if we can trust Skinner, Mulder,” says Scully. “I suspect he’s a mole in the FBI, reporting to the Syndicate.”

Mulder snorts, honestly surprised. “It’s _Skinner_.”

“He’s been in a position to know everything we’ve done from the beginning, Mulder! He easily could’ve been making reports on our work on the X-Files.”

“Skinner has never given us a reason not to trust him.”

“I say he’s given us plenty.” She crosses her arms, stubborn as ever, and the brief rush of annoyance feels like relief. _She’s alive,_ he thinks again, and smiles in spite of himself. Scully looks confused for a split second before she seems to realize what he is thinking and her face softens slightly. She opens her mouth to say something else, but the knock comes at the door first, followed by Scully’s mother calling her name.

“She dropped me off here last night,” Scully says, panic edging into her voice. “She’s worried about me… she took me to visit your _grave_ yesterday, Mulder.” Her voice cracks slightly.

“Want me to hide?” he asks softly.

“Dana, are you in there?”

“Just a minute, Mom,” Scully calls. She meets Mulder’s eyes, nodding seriously. He stands and turns to go into the bedroom. By the time he’s reached the bed, Scully is unlocking the door to let her mother in. “Hi, Mom. You didn’t have to come get me,” she is saying. Mulder stands behind a pile of boxes and tries not to make noise. _I’ll be a model dead man,_ he thinks to himself bitterly.

“You don’t have any way to get home, sweetie. And I’m worried about you, Dana. I know how hard this has been…”

“I’m okay, Mom, really. I just think that… being here is good for me. It’s helping me here.”

“Coming to the place where Fox died is helping you?”

“Mom…” Scully tries, her tone faltering.

“Sweetie, I know it’s hard. I do. When you lose someone you love… when I lost your father… it’s hard to let go. But you need to try. And you’re still recovering, sweetie; you need to be home in bed.”

Silence for a minute. Mulder can feel his heart pounding. “I know, Mom,” Scully says finally, uncertainly.

Her mother’s tone is exceedingly gentle. “So do you think you’re ready to come home?”

More silence that must accompany a nod, because the next thing Scully says is, “I’m going to go and get my cell phone from the bedroom.” Mulder shifts to the side as she comes into the bedroom, letting the door swing shut behind her. _I’ll come back and get you,_ she mouths.

He nods in acknowledgement. The sight of her is almost too much to bear; he steps forward and cups her head, her silky hair, before leaning down and kissing her. It is a long, soft one, her hands clenching desperately in the hem of his shirt before she pulls away. She squeezes his arm and offers him a small smile before turning to leave.

* * *

 

Her mother takes her back to her apartment and Scully watches for her car to leave from the window, feeling like a teenager, before grabbing her car keys and going back to Hegel to pick Mulder back up. She is buzzing with excitement the entire time, an unexplainable high that seems to come either from sneaking around or from the fact that her partner is alive and well. She grabs her gun and holster in the apartment, just in case.

She uses her key to get in, wanting to keep up the charade of Mulder’s death, and calls, “Mulder, it’s me,” softly into the dark apartment.

She’s half-expecting him to be gone, but he comes out of the bedroom and greets her with the same soft smile that’s made her think she loved him in hospital rooms and hotel rooms and over beer bottles in his or her dimly lit apartment. She’s tempted to go and wrap her arms around him like a tourniquet, but she holds herself back, the kiss in his bedroom playing at the back of her mind like a broken record. “Hey,” he says softly, coming closer to her. “I told my neighbor to keep quiet about the exaggerated rumors of my death. I think she will, if only for the FBI thing. If not, it’s because she’s an enormous gossip.”

Scully laughs softly. “We’ll figure out a plan, Mulder,” she says. “We’ll introduce you back into the world of the living as soon as possible. For now, are you okay taking up residence at my apartment?”

“Ooh,” he teases. He is tired, she can tell, but he also seems to be immensely happy that she is alive. She knows the feeling. “Yeah, just give me a sec to pack a bag. This isn’t technically a crime scene anymore, is it?”

“No, just a vacant apartment,” she says, awkwardly. If she holds her breath, she can almost forget that Mulder was ever dead. “I was going to take the fish, though.”

“I know they appreciate it,” he says, turning to head back into the bedroom. “You’re their favorite, you know.”

“Oh, really,” she deadpans, going to the bedroom door.

He is stuffing things in a duffel bag with a lack of organization that will drive her crazy. “Sure,” he says. “I taught them everything they know.”

* * *

 

Scully orders a pizza when they get back to her place and they eat it cross-legged on the floor. The TV plays in the background, but it is mostly white noise; they find themselves staring at each other at odd moments. They are in a perpetual state of disbelief.

“I think we should call Skinner,” says Mulder, as Scully crumples up napkins and deposits them among the bare bones of pizza crusts.

Her fingernails scrape over cardboard as she closes the box. “And if we can’t trust him?”

“I do what I do best,” he says. “Disappear.”

“Another ditch?” She sounds somewhere between wounded and amused.

“Not a ditch,” he tries. God, he doesn’t want to leave her. “Maybe a… last ditch effort…”

“I’m coming with you.” She folds the pizza box in half and stuffs it in the garbage can. “Whatever happens. I’m coming.”

He watches her quietly, the fall of her hair over her cheeks as she leans over the counter. “Okay,” he says. It’s not a difficult decision. He doesn’t want to let her go, ever.

Scully braces herself with hands on the counter before turning back to him. “But you’re right,” she says. “Let’s call Skinner before we make any other decisions. I have my gun in case he double-crosses us.”

“Scully, did you just say I was _right_?”

She smirks down at her hands—jagged nails, chipped fingernail polish, faint freckles across the back. “Shut up, Mulder.”

They call Skinner on the speaker phone, sitting side by side on Scully’s couch. Mulder reaches out and squeezes Scully’s knee. Her hand covers his as Skinner answers. “It’s Agent Scully, sir.”

“Agent Scully,” he says, his voice a strange mix of sympathy, sorrow, and eagerness. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m doing well,” Scully says. “Sir…”

“That’s wonderful, all things considered. Agent Mulder’s death was a true tragedy. I’ve mourned his loss as I’m sure you have, too.”

Mulder smiles a little. It’s nice to know that people care. “Sir,” says Scully, slipping her fingers under his and pressing their palms together. “It is urgent that we talk immediately.”

“What?” His voice is sharp with confusion. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”

“I think things could be better explained in person, sir,” Scully says. “If you could come over to my apartment, I think we could clear things up.”

“Agent Scully, is this a joke?”

“No, it’s not. I can assure you of that.”

“Than what is so important? I have things to do, Agent, and I don’t have time for…”

“It’s about Agent Mulder’s death,” Scully says in a rush. Shocked silence, so she keeps going. “I don’t think it was suicide. I have substantial proof, in fact, that it was a murder, and I’d like…”

“Hold it, Agent.” A weary sigh. “I’ll be over in about an hour. But this had better not be a joke. I see no sense in dragging this any further through the mud. Agent Mulder got enough of that when he was alive.” His voice is somewhere between furious and very, very sad. He hangs up the phone before either of them can say more.

Silence for a moment. “Nice to know someone cares,” Mulder says, breaking it.

“Of course he cares,” Scully says in an angry rush. “You’re incredibly endearing, Mulder. It’s infuriating.”

Her change in tone is almost stunning. “Scully?” he asks, cautiously.

“Just…” She shakes her head. “You’re infuriating,” she mumbles, wrapping both arms around him and pressing her face into his chest.

He hugs her back, arms tight around her waist. His eyes slip closed in relief. He’d pictured her so many times since the alien had told him she was dead: cold, lifeless, limp and still and white. Her mother crying at her funeral, a funeral he’d never go to. The gravestone that he’d gone to see when she’d been missing, finally put to use. He still can’t quite believe it’s not true, that she’s _real_ and _here_. “I’m so glad you’re alive,” he says into her hair. “So glad, Scully…”

She sniffles into his shirt and hugs him hard before letting go. He misses the weight of her. “The feeling is mutual,” she says, fingers trailing through his hair briefly. “You have no idea.”

He takes her hand again. She pulls his into her lap. They sit and watch TV in silence.

Skinner comes nearly an hour later, and doesn’t actually bother knocking, just shoves the door open and comes in. Mulder jumps to his feet and tries to step in front of Scully, but she’s standing beside him a second later. “Sir,” she says, and the tension in Mulder’s shoulders ease as he realizes who it is.

Skinner’s eyes flick from one to the other. His eyes are wider than saucers. “What the _hell_ , Agent Scully?”

“I know it’s a lot to take in, sir…” Scully says, holding up her hand in a _calm down_ motion. “I know it’s hard to believe, but… Agent Mulder is alive.”

“You’re lying,” Skinner hisses. “This is some kind of mind trick, you’re screwing with my head.”

“No, sir, never,” says Scully quickly.

“It’s me,” says Mulder. “In the flesh, sir. I promise.”

“Agent Scully, what the hell is this? are you a part of?”

“It’s not a trick. It’s him, it’s really him, I swear to you.” Scully is frantic, white as a sheet, hands shaking. “I swear.”

He’s addressing Scully now: “And you know he’s not some kind of a-a-a decoy?”

“No.” Her voice is firm. “It’s him. I know.”

“What about that van Blundht guy?” Skinner snaps.

“I’d know. He was… different. This is him. Really him.” She touches his shoulder, an affirmation. Mulder nods.

Skinner is still looking between them cautiously. His hand, hovering over the butt of his gun, lowers to his side. “How the hell did this _happen_? I saw your _body_ , Agent Mulder. I went to your funeral for Christ’s sake. Closed casket, albeit, but… how can you be perfectly fine? You had a damn bullet wound in the side of your head.”

“The Syndicate took me,” says Mulder, trying to remain calm and not freak the man out. “Knocked me out. I woke up in a cell. They kept me there for weeks, until last night. The door was open, I walked out. I caught a taxi home, Scully was there.” He leaves out the part where he spent all of those weeks believing she was dead.

His fingers twitch around his gun. “And the body?”

“A fake of some sort, I suppose,” Scully says. “I called my friend about the autopsy. She told me the body was gone.”

“Shit.” Skinner sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. “Shit.” He collapses in Scully’s easy chair, rubbing and rubbing his eyes. “I am damn glad to know you’re all right, Agent.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mulder says, somewhere between amused and relieved Skinner didn’t shoot first and ask questions later.

“In the meantime, I have no idea how the hell we’re ever going to explain this to anyone.” Skinner looks between them wearily, pushing his glasses up on his nose.

“I could take the blame,” Scully says quickly. “Say I identified the body wrong, that it was a mistake.”

“That still doesn’t explain why I didn’t show up until weeks later,” says Mulder.

“But we have no proof of your abduction, Mulder. You’ll never be able to prove that these people took you, they’ll clean it all up. They’ll frame it in a way that’ll implicate you, or Scully, or both. They’ve done shit like this plenty before,” Skinner says.

Mulder chews his lower lip. “What about exhuming the grave?”

Scully flinches. A little flinch, but he sees it. “We’d need your mother’s permission for that, Mulder.”

“She’s unlikely to give her permission,” Mulder says. “Unless… unless I went up there to show her I was alive. If I assured her that it was important, she’d do it.”

“If we can convince her that exhuming the grave will be able to bring you back to society, then we can proof that the person in your coffin isn’t you—whether the coffin is empty, or there’s a body there and the DNA doesn’t match,” Scully offers.

“That seems like the best idea to me,” says Skinner. “Your mother lives in Greenwich, right? I can try to guarantee that you’ll be protected on the drive up.”

“I’ve got that covered,” Scully says. Her fingers brush Mulder’s hand. “Thank you, though, sir.”

Skinner looks between them uncertainly before seeming to give up. He’s clearly shaken up and confused as hell. “Be careful,” he says gruffly, finally. “The last thing we need is you two dead after you both escaped it.” He turns and leaves the apartment before either of them can say anything else.

“Told you we could trust him,” Mulder teases, cuffing Scully’s shoulder playfully.

She swats at his arm. “We’ll find out,” she says. “If he’s working for the other side…”

“It’ll be okay. We’ll stick together. Besides, even if the exhumation doesn’t work, I’d rather my mother know than most others.” He’s quiet for a minute, reaching out to brush her hair back. “And you. And the Gunmen.”

“We should tell the Gunmen,” Scully agrees. “I haven’t talked to them since you di—since this all started.” She bites her lip hard. “I have no idea how they took it, but I’m sure they’ll be elated to know you’re okay.”

“Maybe not. I left my tapes to Frohike in my will,” he cracks. Her shoulders hunch up a little bit, and he feels the need to apologize. He’d hate it if she joked about her death. “Should we go over and tell them?”

“Yeah, let’s go.” She grabs her keys off the counter and turns towards the door. He brushes his fingers over the small of her back as they go.

* * *

 

It takes several minutes of Mulder reciting various codes that the Gunmen have made him memorize into the intercom, but they finally let them in. “We knew it!” Frohike crows excitedly as soon as they enter. “We knew something was up when your body vanished from the morgue!”

“We suspected that someone had interfered,” Langly says eagerly. The two of them are practically crowding him at the door.

“We weren’t sure what it was, but we kept an eye on security footage at your building, Scully’s building, the morgue, the hospital…” Byers supplies. All three of them are grinning.

“Thanks, boys,” says Mulder, accepting Frohike’s outstretched arms. “I bet you would’ve found me eventually.”

“We would’ve,” Scully says. “We would’ve.” Langly is nodding in agreement.

“So what happened?” Frohike wants to know. “Were you sucked up in a UFO?”

Mulder gives an abridged version of the past few weeks, again leaving out Scully’s assumed death. “And you have no idea who did this to you?” Byers asks.

“All I saw was the smoker and a few various aliens. I don’t know. It wasn’t a very… eventful time.”

“Any intel on their plans?” Langly asks.

Mulder shakes his head. “Sorry, guys.”

The three of them exchange a look before Frohike says, “We’ll crack their system someday, Mulder. We’re just happy you’re alive.” Byers and Langly nod their agreement.

“The relief is mutual,” Mulder says, and Scully has to agree that it really, really is.

They head back to Scully’s apartment after confirming their plan to drive up to Connecticut in the morning and Mulder promising to come by and celebrate his resurrection after it’s all over. “Are you sure you’ll be okay with the drive tomorrow?” Mulder asks in the hall outside her door, his fingers absently drumming on the wall. “I don’t want to overdo it and hurt you. Or scare your mom.”

Scully turns the key in the lock. “I’m fine, Mulder, really. It’s not like we can’t take shifts if I get tired.”

He stills the motion of his fingers, slipping his hand in his pocket. “How long are you on medical leave?”

“Couple of months. Skinner and Mom insisted.” The fluorescent lights in the hallway wash out her face. She looks pale, shoulders hunched up. “I asked Skinner to keep the X-Files open, though, for when I came back,” she adds as the door swings open.

He blinks in surprise. “You were going to keep working the X-Files?”

She tips her chin up to meet his eyes, clearly astonished that he thought otherwise. “Of course, Mulder. It’s my unit as much as yours.” He doesn’t say anything so she keeps going. “I wanted to continue your work, of course… I thought… I thought maybe I could catch these people, expose them, get revenge for you…”

She doesn’t finish before he crushes her to him. Her nose mashes awkwardly into the skin above his collar, but she leans into the embrace gratefully and wraps her arms around his waist. He’s holding her tightly, mouth pressed to her temple. “Scully,” he mumbles into her hair.

Overwhelmed, she pulls back slightly, reaches up to wrap her arms around his neck and rises up on her toes to kiss him. He gathers her closer eagerly, their noses brushing as they deepen the kiss.

* * *

 

They sleep wrapped around each other, similar to the way they did the night before.

Neither of them dream about the other’s death.

* * *

Mulder insists on taking the first driving shift. On the interstate, too-green leaves shuffling in the slight breeze and the other cars fading into a monochrome blur, Scully remembers the time a few days ago when she pretended that Mulder was driving. _We have all the time in the world,_ she thinks again, and smiles when she realizes it is true.

Mulder keeps a bag of sunflower seeds in the middle of the console and she complains about the shells he leaves all over the carpet, but she eats them anyway, salt leaving a greasy trail on her fingers. They mindlessly argue about radio stations and road maps and everything they thought they’d never get a chance to argue about again. It’s the best kind of mindless. She thinks she loves him.

They get to his mother’s house about mid-day, and Mulder is fidgeting madly in the passenger’s seat when Scully pulls up. “I have no idea how she’s going to react to this, Scully,” he says, gnawing on a thumbnail. “After Samantha… after all the scares… what if she doesn’t believe it’s me?”

“She will, Mulder,” says Scully. “She’s your mother. She cares about you. She sounded terrible when I spoke to her after this all started.”

“The last time I saw her is when she… the incident with the Cassandras,” he says hollowly.

Scully bites her lip, reaches out and touches his shoulder. “Why don’t I go talk to her,” she says. “Make sure she’s prepared. I’ll come get you when she’s ready.”

He shoots her a grateful look that she takes as a cue. She squeezes his shoulder briefly before climbing out of the car. Her heels click loudly on the driveway. She has no idea what to say to this woman who she’s understood and resented in the same breath. She pictures the scene from a few weeks ago again and flinches. She knocks on the door politely.

Teena Mulder opens the door a few moments later, wearing all black. “Agent Scully? How can I help you?” She sounds slightly irritated and mournful all at once. Maybe it’s because Scully reminds her of her dead/not-dead son.

“I’m sorry to intrude like this, without calling, it’s just…” Scully clears her throat. “I called to discuss your son’s passing with you, recently. And now… there’s been something of a development.”

The woman’s hand goes to her throat in shock. “What do you mean?”

“He’s… alive.” Teena’s eyes widen, swaying ever so slightly in place, and Scully rushes to fill in the gaps. “I found out the other night, he came home and I was there… It seems he was taken, and a duplicate killed in his place. He escaped. I brought him up here with me.”

“Fox is here?” Teena whispers like she can’t believe it.

Scully nods. “Right out in the car. I’ll go get him, we just… didn’t want to shock you.”

Mulder’s mother nods urgently, and there seems to be nothing else to say so Scully rushes down the driveway and taps on Mulder’s window. He climbs out, an uncertain look on his face. “She’s waiting for you,” she says softly, and leans against the car as she watches Mulder go up to the house and embrace his mother, both of them crying.

* * *

 

Mulder’s mother agrees to order an exhumation of the false grave. She and Mulder spend most of the evening talking, her crying discreetly behind a handkerchief. Scully doesn’t mind. She knows what it’s like, the relief of having your life back and the family members who are grateful.

Hours later, she’s sitting in mostly silence in the living room while the two of them talk when her phone rings. Neither of them notice when she steps in the other room to answer it. “Scully,” she says briskly into the phone.

“Agent Scully,” Skinner says on the other end. “Agent Mulder’s mother ordered an exhumation of his grave for some reason, and there seems to be a discrepancy with the body.”

He’s playing like he doesn’t know the truth, but there’s no missing the pointedness of his tone. Someone must be listening. “What discrepancies are you referring to, sir?” she asks, fidgeting with the hem of her jacket.

“It seems that there is no body, Agent Scully, and there’s some uncertainties about the authenticity of Agent Mulder’s death. We’d like you to get up there immediately. I’ll be on the next flight out myself.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Oh, and Agent? The package you brought with you to Connecticut? Leave it there.”

“Yes, sir,” she says, understanding his meaning instantly.

Skinner hangs up with a click and Scully lets out a relived breath with a whoosh. This will all be over soon. They can go back to normal.

“Scully?” Mulder steps into the hall behind her. “What’s going on?”

She turns to face him, sliding her phone back into her pocket. “Your coffin was found empty, and Skinner wants me to come up there. And he doesn’t want you to come with me.”

Concern immediately comes over his expression. “Are you sure about that?”

“I’ll be fine, Mulder. I’m more worried about you. For God’s sake, you were a captive a few days ago. They could still come for you.”

“Or you.” His hand brushes over her elbow.

She bites her lip, looking up at him. “We’ll be okay,” she says finally. “We need to do this. It’s the only way you can rejoin the land of the living.”

He smirks a little before leaning down to kiss her briefly. “Be careful,” he says, rubbing his thumbs in tiny circles over her hair. “And call me when you get there, okay?”

No objections there. “Okay,” she whispers. She gives in to the nagging feeling at the back of her mind that she will never see him again and hugs him fiercely. “Don’t die on me now, all right?” she tells him sternly.

He reaches down to take her hand, squeezes it hard. “I promise. As long as you don’t die on me.”

“It’s a deal,” she says into his chest. _We’ll be okay now,_ she can’t help thinking. _We’ll be okay._


End file.
